‘Why?’
‘Because he’s attractive, charismatic, educated. Girls turned up to his trial wearing “I love Bundy” T-shirts without even a smidgen of irony. Girls that would’ve been his victims if he wasn’t already on trial.’
‘That makes him more terrifying?’
‘Completely. No one expects death to be wrapped in such a pretty bow.’ I shudder. ‘He was insane.’
‘Experts didn’t find anything wrong with him. He wasn’t mentally ill.’
‘So … he was a high-functioning crazy.’
‘Or he was perfectly rational.’
I stare at him. ‘He murdered people.’
‘You don’t have to be insane to commit murder.’
‘Jack.’ The word holds so much reprimand, he blinks at me. ‘Bundy cut off women’s heads and kept shagging the corpses until they were mush.’
‘Yeah, so that’s a bizarre fetish.’ He sees my look of horror and rolls his eyes. ‘Obviously, but committing murder doesn’t mean he was crazy. He was driven and ruthless, yeah, but he wasn’t mentally ill.’
‘I don’t …’ I trail off, frustrated and a little angry he can’t see my point. ‘Are you defending Bundy?’
‘No, of course not. I’m just saying, I don’t think you can call him insane just to make yourself feel better.’
I sip my drink, pushing down the irritation that rises in my body and remind myself that Jack often says things just to get a reaction. Still, I don’t want to argue. We’ve only had one huge blowout in twenty-three years and that was a few months after I started dating Noah. So, I give him his stage. ‘Okay. Explain.’
He doesn’t hesitate to take the spotlight. ‘It’s easier for people to tell themselves murderers and serial killers are mentally ill because it makes them feel safer. It’s a security blanket. As though their neighbour or son or husband couldn’t possibly be a killer because they don’t have a mental illness. It’s easier to chalk it up to that than it is to accept sometimes people just get pushed too far and they make an informed decision to take action.’
I take a second to organise my thoughts and I’m struck again by how differently Jack views the world. He is the king of controversial opinions. ‘So … what? Bundy was just a hot, sane serial killer?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I disagree. I don’t believe anyone who can inflict such violence is legitimately well.’
I expect him to argue because once Jack has an idea in his head, it’s almost impossible to sway him. But he surprises me. ‘Yeah,’ he says, reaching for the Merlot. ‘Maybe you’re right. More wine?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
32 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
‘Tell me, how has your week been?’ asked Harriett during our session today.
She’s closer to fifty than forty and has a beautiful home not far from mine. Her office is in a summer house at the bottom of her rose garden. She’s created a tranquil space of neutral tones and potted plants.
You bought me a plant when I moved into my place, do you remember? A money tree for prosperity. I couldn’t tell if you were making a dig about Ethan’s pay and my lack thereof, so I wasn’t sorry when it died. I’m sorry now, though. I think I’d feel more connected to you if I could nurture a living thing you’d chosen for me.
‘Fine,’ I said. All our sessions start with me telling my counsellor I’m fine and end with me block-booking more hours. ‘Mum’s out of hospital.’
‘And how’s she doing?’
‘Fine. The doctors said it was just dehydration and stress. We’ve got to watch her blood pressure, but she’ll be okay. She whacked her head on the corner of my dining table pretty hard. She had to have stitches. I feel so guilty.’
‘But you couldn’t predict your mother would faint.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ I reached out and took my glass of water from the coffee table. ‘It’s been a busy few days. I’ve been running around all over the place, doing the food shop for my parents, helping organise more search parties for Elodie, reading through all the letters from the public. Mum finally agreed to let me sort through them first. The more … disturbing letters have taken their toll on her.’ I swallowed, remembering the one I read last night; some sicko detailing all the gut-wrenching things he’d done to you before drowning you in his pond. Not wanting to discuss the letters with Harriett, I moved on. ‘And I’ve been running errands for Mum too.’
‘And how’re you coping with all those responsibilities?’
I paused because I needed to tell her what happened yesterday, but I didn’t want her to think I’m unhinged and melodramatic. Sensing my hesitation, she folded her hands in her lap and waited.
‘Not well,’ I admitted. ‘Months ago, Mum agreed to this bake sale to help raise money for the Appleby Nursery. With everything going on, it slipped her mind and she only remembered the night before. She got herself really worked up. The doctor said Mum shouldn’t get stressed, so I promised I’d bake something and drop it off.’ I took a sip of my water. Even though I am forever cooking and baking and have a huge repertoire of recipes, I ended up making chocolate orange brownies because they’re your favourite. ‘I wasn’t planning to stay and help with the sale, but the women were run off their feet without Mum, so I stayed and helped.’
I stared out at Harriett’s rose garden, thinking it was such a shame in just a few months, they’d be dead. She’d potter down to her home office one morning, cup of coffee in hand, only to realise the roses she never truly stopped to appreciate are gone.
‘Go on,’ prompted Harriett.
‘Well, it was all going fine until I overheard Louisa, this thin, pointy woman who definitely doesn’t actually eat anything she bakes, making a comment about how lucky it is that Elodie isn’t a mother, and I just got so angry.’
Harriett made a small note in her book. God, El, I really want to see what she writes in that book. I hope it’s not ‘crazy, neurotic bitch’ underlined several times. ‘And why do you think it made you angry?’ she asked.
‘Because Elodie is more than her reproductive organs. She’s witty and smart and well-read. Talented. So talented. She got a book deal just before she went missing. She cares deeply … about everything, even stray cats. You know she took in a stray cat even though it could’ve cost her her lease?’ I thought of Seefer then and how I should look for her. ‘Stray cats, stray people, even those who never deserved it.’ And god, I was boiling all over again. Sitting on Harriett’s sofa, I could feel the acidic burn of fury beneath my skin. I knew getting angry didn’t help but I couldn’t switch off how I felt about that stupid woman’s comment. ‘Elodie is great at running and writing and her skin is clear without having to slap on overpriced, organic moisturiser every morning, noon and night. She’s brave and adventurous. One of the most ambitious people I know. So why does it matter if she has children? Why does her disappearance somehow mean less because she didn’t give birth?’